The Dust
by Poasoianne
Summary: Something goes horribly, terribly wrong, and Hermione is alone in a strange time. Perhaps she can put things to right. Set in PoA. "Cold ice shot through her head, and she screamed in pain. It was like fire, a cold, cold fire was coursing through her body."


There were too many of them. Too many to count. A bleak hopelessness flooded her body, made her flop bonelessly against Harry, who held her as firmly to his chest as he could whilst shaking himself. He set her against the stump of a tree. "I'll save them." His voice was determined.

"No, Harry." She whispered. "They'll notice we're here."

"I have to save him." Harry's voice was hard. "I already did remember? This already worked."

That was true. Harry and Sirius had been saved by someone, and it was looking increasingly likely that it had been Harry himself.

Harry raised his wand, his hand shaking. He was afraid. "Expecto Patronum!" Even as his voice faltered, a brilliant white stag materialised in front of them. It's light seemed to paralyse the dementors, freezing them into place if only for a split second.

But there were more. Hermione could see more coming, waves and waves of them, and she shouted desperately at Harry that this hadn't happened last time. Something had changed. Something had changed since he saw his father chase darkness away.

And then the patronus winked out, and the dementors came closer and she could feel their coldness, and the utter despair they emanated. One grazed its finger under her chin, and she stood frozen in horror. She was distantly aware of Harry, and of his counterpart and Sirius across the lake, but her blood felt like liquid ice and she couldn't move. Thoughts she didn't want to think were swirling round her head. Thoughts she'd never even thought before. 'I want to die'. She said in her head. 'I don't want to feel this anymore.'

The dementor chuckled, a low, grating sound.

"Please." Hermione whimpered, and then stopped herself. Dementors can't talk, she thought, They can't understand language. They were barely sentient. The creature in front of her shouldn't be laughing.

It's finger dropped from her chin, instead stroking the chain around her neck.

She looked up- it had no eyes- just a hollow crevice for a face, and yet she felt in that moment a sudden sickness, a shame, as though her entire soul had been dissected and reassembled again. It smelled like rot, and like death.

She felt very much like a child suddenly- not entirely inaccurately- and then the hooded figure plunged its gnarled hand into her robes, gripping the hourglass pendant. It drifted forward, its featureless face mere inches from her and its lips brushed her forehead. Cold ice shot through her head, and she screamed in pain. It was like fire, a cold, cold fire was coursing through her body. And she sobbed.

The dementor's crevice was assembled in what could be mistaken as a smile- a very cruel smile. This is going to hurt it seemed to say, as though she could possibly hurt any more.

It crushed the time turner in its vice like grip.

A rush of wind lifted Hermione off her feet and away from the dementor. She screamed as the pain intensified, and her screams were cut off suddenly with a gurgling sound, as her throat and nose and eyes began to fill, fill, fill with sand until she could no longer see, no longer breathe or scream or shout. And as she choked and grit leaked from under her eyes, darkness seemed to come over her, and she welcomed it.

* * *

She awoke to quiet and comfort- soft linen and warmth. She did not open her eyes, she was not sure why- just that it felt wrong to do so. Every inch of her body ached, but it was still a welcome relief from the fire that had surged through her veins.

She stirred. She could hear quiet voices, and the sound of a door opening and footsteps, coming closer.

"What do you make of this?" A woman's voice whispered. "She was dressed in the school robes, and yet-"

"I do not know." A man spoke this time, he sounded old and weary. "We must proceed with caution, Poppy, in these dark times." His voice seemed suddenly closer. "I have no doubt the child is listening to us right now."

When Poppy replied, it was with a small bit of irritation, "She is still my patient Headmaster. And she may yet be sleeping. I ask you not to disturb her."

Headmaster. The man was Dumbledore. And the woman, she supposed, must be Madam Pomfrey.

But why were they speaking as though they didn't know who she was? It sounded as though they believed her to be a threat.

Hermione felt very sick all of a sudden. She had to know what was going on- and yet something still prevented her from opening her eyes and asking the burning questions flying through her head.

"Alas." The Headmaster said, grimly. "I'm afraid I must."

And with that she felt a jolt go through her body- almost like an electric shock, and yet so very different at the same time. Her back arched and her limbs left the mattress in a single short second before she contorted into a sitting position, her eyes wide open and wild, and her heart beating erratically.

"Headmaster!" The medi-witch, who Hermione confirmed was in fact Madam Pomfrey, was standing on the other side of the bed. "I do not condone such magics in my infirmary. And they are certainly not to be used on the likes of children!"

"It's okay." Hermione croaked, in defense of the powerful wizard before her. Something about the anger directed towards the man seemed inherently wrong. It was not how wise, old mages should be treated. "It didn't hurt."

Madam Pomfrey's lips were pursed as she regarded the girl on the bed, before turning back to the old wizard. "I am not sure with my good conscience I can leave her alone in your presence, Albus."

"It was necessary." Dumbledore said, looking regretful. "I do apologise young lady." He addressed this to Hermione, before turning back to look at the fuming woman opposite him. "And you surely understand why it is also necessary that I speak with her alone. I will not attempt such magics again."

Madam Pomfrey seemed to deflate. "I do not have much choice in the matter." She spoke resignedly, as though this sort of occurrence was not, in fact, rare. "She is still unwell, Headmaster. I implore you to be gentle." With this the woman turned on her heel and left the small room through an oakwood door.

Not the hospital wing, Hermione suddenly realised. She raised her eyes to meet those of the Headmaster. There was something different about him. His eyes did not twinkle the way she was used to, and there was a hardness within the bright blue that unsettled her.

He sat down in the chair beside her bed. "It was our grounds keeper who found you." His voice was not angry, but it lacked the warmth she was used to, "By the lake, at the edge of the forest. You were wearing the Hogwarts robes, Gryffindor colours." He was watching her face for any sign of reaction. "As the Headmaster I like to think I remember the children who are taught at my school. And yet, my child, I could swear I have never seen your face before."

Hermione's blood froze. The ice in her veins was pumping through her body at an alarming rate. "Sir." She whispered. "You must know who I am." She was very, very afraid all of a sudden. What had happened? What had happened between now and-

The dementor.

It's cold, cold laughter.

The crushed remains of the time turner in its grasp.

"Oh no." Her words felt too large in her mouth. "Oh no." She grasped frantically for any semblance of control. She couldn't break down. "Sir, there was- I mean. There was an accident."

"An accident." Dumbledore repeated, looking a little intrigued.

Hermione felt tears bubbling up beneath her eyelids. "Yes." She spoke shakily. "An accident. Or perhaps not- it looked as though it knew."

"Who?" The wizened old man leaned forward.

"The dementor." Hermione whispered. "It broke my time turner, sir. I think- I think I can't ever go home." She dissolved into tears.

There was silence after she said this.

Professor Dumbledore leant back on his chair, his expression considering. "Forgive me for asking." He spoke softly, his voice much gentler. "But might I ask what year you came to Hogwarts?"

"Nineteen ninety-one." Hermione didn't dare look up. "I was born on the nineteenth of September nineteen seventy-nine. My name's Hermione and I was sorted into Gryffindor but I had to argue with the hat for ages because it wanted to put me in Ravenclaw. I'm fourteen. I have an older brother but he's already twenty-seven-" She broke off, choking and shaking with sobs.

The Headmaster placed his hand over hers. "You do not need to say more." He said quietly. "In fact I think perhaps you shouldn't."

Hermione met his eyes. "What year is it sir?" She whispered.

The Headmaster appeared very old all of a sudden. "It is, at this precise moment, the very day you say you were born. Or at least, it shall be for just another two hours." He paused. "I will need to make some arrangements, and I will need to think. And you must sleep, I think." He rose from the seat. "It is late, after all."

Hermione lay back, realising suddenly just how tired she was. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her body had come to an abrupt halt, and she hardly noticed when Madam Pomfrey once again came into the room.

The motherly witch helped her drink something- some sort of potion, she realised from its foul taste- before she closed her eyes for the last time that day, letting a dreamless sleep wash over her entirely.


End file.
